


He Is A Villain By The Devil's Law

by ladypigswagon



Series: Tumblr Prompts [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bank robber!Stiles, M/M, Tumblr Prompt, getaway driver au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4079548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladypigswagon/pseuds/ladypigswagon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ lungs are burning, blood is pumping through his veins and he’s pretty sure that if he stops running then he’ll just keel over into the gutter. But God does he feel alive. The sirens are wailing, loud and clear. Just one more block. One more block.  Stiles ducks down an alleyway, the bag full of bank notes swinging behind him. It hits his side with a dull thud. The alley smells like cat pee and yesterdays trash so Stiles breathes shallowly through his mouth. He continues walking down it until he reaches the end. It opens out onto the street. He stops just shy of the exit, waiting. He waits a bit more. Then he kicks a can lying idle on the ground. He whips out his burner phone, punching in a number.</p><p>“Where the fuck are you?” Stiles growls, “Where’s my goddamn getaway car?”</p><p>“Change of plans Stilinski, you’re gonna have to get away on your own. Also ditch the phone.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Is A Villain By The Devil's Law

**Author's Note:**

> Cywscross said to ladypigswagon:  
> Steter with 'Hey, so I might have just robbed a bank right now and I kind of need a getaway car, would you pleeeeeaaase help me I can pay you back in sexual favors but also cash.’ au. And I am down for a smutty ending if you are;) thank you!
> 
> Yes the title is from a Britney Spear's song, I am not ashamed.

Stiles’ lungs are burning, blood is pumping through his veins and he’s pretty sure that if he stops running then he’ll just keel over into the gutter. But God does he feel alive. The sirens are wailing, loud and clear. Just one more block. One more block. Stiles ducks down an alleyway, the bag full of bank notes swinging behind him. It hits his side with a dull thud. The alley smells like cat pee and yesterdays trash so Stiles breathes shallowly through his mouth. He continues walking down it until he reaches the end. It opens out onto the street. He stops just shy of the exit, waiting. He waits a bit more. Then he kicks a can lying idle on the ground. He whips out his burner phone, punching in a number.

 

“Where the fuck are you?” Stiles growls, “Where’s my goddamn getaway car?”

 

“Change of plans Stilinski, you’re gonna have to get away on your own. Also ditch the phone.”

 

Stiles hangs up. He smashes the phone beneath his boot before chucking what’s left of the carcass into a nearby dumpster. Looks like he’ll have to improvise. He yanks a maroon beanie out of his bag and rams it on his head. He’ll probably have to go back to the buzz cut after this. He zips up the bag and steps out into the street. He leans against a lamppost, surveying the variety of cars he’s probably going to have to hotwire. He has to cup a hand over his eyes to avoid being blinded by the sun glaring off the shiny metal. They glide from the swish Porsche to the beat up Ford Focus. He needs inconspicuous. Something fast but not too flashy.

 

His prayers appear to be answered when he spots the Camaro. It’s nothing too swish but should still do the trick. Stiles rolls his shoulders and crosses the road. He can hear the sirens in the distance so he’ll have to be quick. He’s about to approach it, when a tall, muscular man in a dark V-neck comes out of a dingy tattoo parlor and gets to the Camaro first, unlocking it. The sirens are getting louder and whilst Stiles doesn’t want a hostage, he doesn’t have time to hotwire a different car and not get caught. He grabs the gun from his inside pocket and just goes for it.

 

“Hi,” Stiles says, climbing into the passenger seat, the gun pointed at the man’s crotch. “I just robbed a bank and my getaway driver bailed. If you’d be so kind as to drive me out of L.A, I’d be eternally grateful. Seriously, for all eternity, you’d have my gratitude. It’s a pretty long time.” Stiles smiles because even though he’s pointing a gun at this frankly gorgeous guy, he’s not a total douche.

 

“I don’t respond well to threats,” The man says, evidently unimpressed with Stiles gun. Stiles can hear the sirens, he doesn’t want to have to play negotiator nor does he want to shoot this guy and attract more cops.

 

“How about a share of the cash and/or sexual favors?” Stiles asks, eager to get a damn move on. The man smirks. He looks like a wolf.

 

“Now that I respond to.” He puts the car in gear and they pull away from the curb, disappearing into the L.A traffic. Stiles chucks the bag full of money onto the floor, resting his feet on either side. He doesn’t relax his grip on the gun, he’s still unsure whether V-neck dude will actually take him out of Beacon City or straight to the cops.

 

“What bank did you rob?” The man asks when the reach a red light.

 

“Does it matter?” Stiles replies, removing the beanie to rub a hand through his hair. He’ll probably need to shave it. At least he’s still wearing the colored contacts so that his eyes are blue instead of their traditional bronze. Any distinguishing features have been covered even though he was wearing an awful Richard Nixon mask. His moles are gone, hidden beneath makeup and his tattoo sleeve is covered. Once he shaves his head and removes the makeup he’ll be a different person.

 

“I suppose in the long run,” the man says conversationally as if they are talking about the weather and not Stiles recent felony, “It doesn’t matter. But you can’t blame me for my curiosity.”

 

“No I guess not,” Stiles says. They are reaching the city limits; soon they’ll hit the motorway. The man fiddles with the AC and suddenly the car is freezing. It’s a welcome breeze, Stiles is sweaty and probably gross. His hair is already stuck to his forehead. Stiles watches the man’s profile and valiantly tries to avoid thinking about him naked. He supposes though if the man picks sexual favors then nakedness might become a thing. Stiles hasn’t dated a man for a few years but he supposes that fellatio, like riding a bike, comes back to you in the heat of the moment.

 

“Shall we exchange names?” The man asks, looking over at Stiles. His eyes are the color of the ocean. “If only so that we can have polite conversation.”

 

“Dave,” Stiles deadpans. The man laughs. It’s a deep, rich sound.

 

“Is that the name you were christened with?” He asks, smirking at Stiles.

 

“What’s wrong with Dave?” Stiles says, mock offended. “Is it too pedestrian for you? Does Dave not sound fancy enough to be a bank robber? You insult me and the thousands of other Dave’s in this world. Who are you to judge? What’s your name then?”

 

“Peter,” The man replies. He seems amused at Stiles fake indignation. They’re reached the edge of the city; the motorway is stretching out before them. Hot, slick, black tracks leading away from a city that is going to go to start tracking him the next few hours. Stiles checks the clock on the dashboard.

 

“Where exactly are you headed?” Peter enquires, pulling out onto the road. Nowhere. Everywhere. Stiles is tempted to lie, get Peter to drop him off a few towns over.

 

“I only ask,” Peter, continues, “Because I need to know where I’m going. I’m in on this now and you did promise a portion of your stolen goods. I expect a **_full_** payment.”

 

Stiles huffs a laugh. Peter is grinning like a wolf. As if Stiles could be prey.

 

“You got GPS?” Stiles asks. Peter nods, tapping the screen and bringing it up. Stiles types an address in. “I’m going there.”

 

_Calculating…_

 

“That’s a two day drive,” Peter comments.

 

“Problem?” Stiles enquires.

 

“Not at all,” Peter replies, “Music?” Stiles shrugs. Peter turns on the radio and soft jazz acts as their theme music as they drive.

 

 

They reach a grimy motel around midnight. It looks like it could use a good scrub and possibly a thousand liters of bleach. Stiles doesn’t really care, he slept in his own vomit once. Peter however is clearly regretting pulling up here. He eyes the motel with serious suspicion and seems reluctant to get out of the Camaro. Stiles rolls his eyes.

 

“Jeez Peter,” Stiles says, “Your car will still be here in the morning.”

 

Peter doesn’t look convinced. Stiles sighs dramatically. He opens the Camaro door and climbs out, bringing the bag with him. The gun has been hidden in his inside pocket of his coat since they stopped for gas. It’s redundant. Peter isn’t going to rat him out to the cops. After spending five hours with him in a car, Stiles has discovered that Peter is a Capricorn, works for his family’s accounting firm, has a weakness for salted caramel chocolate, loves Star Wars, hates working for his family’s accounting firm and his favorite genre of film is spy thrillers. Peter gets out of the car. His expression threatens violence. Stiles snorts. Peter admittedly is taller and more muscular that Stiles but he’s hardly a threat.

 

“My dear Stiles,” Peter says through gritted teeth. Stiles told him his nickname four hours ago. It was so that Peter would stop calling him Dave in an obnoxious voice. “I refuse to take refuge in a building where cockroaches are probably the least of our worries.”

“Dude chill,” Stiles says holding his hand out across the roof of the car in what he hopes is a placating gesture. “It’s one night. You’ll live.”

 

“Not if I contract cholera first,” Peter retorts, following Stiles to the front office. Stiles ignores Peter’s bitter grumbling, choosing instead to order a room with twin singles. Peter gives Stiles a look, which clearly implies that he has not forgotten Stiles offer at the beginning of this journey. Stiles readjusts the shoulder strap of the bag, snatching the keys from the bored looking teenager behind the counter and marching off to find their room.

 

“Stiles,” Peter purrs, “Did we make a promise we aren’t intending to keep?”

 

“You want me to suck your dick? Here in this disgusting motel room?” Stiles asks, dumping the bag onto the hideous orange bedspread. The entire room is decorated in various shades of orange though it’s difficult to tell under the layer of grime. Peter grimaces, running a finger along the top of the TV. It comes away covered in filth.

 

“Perhaps not,” Peter decides.

 

“Damn straight,” Stiles mutters. He roots around in the bag, moving the money aside until he finds the laptop he stashed there. He pulls it out, climbs onto the bed to sit cross-legged with it balancing on his lap. He boots it up, running a finger along the cracks in the screen. Some of the keys are missing. Stiles really needs a new laptop. Peter tests his bed, sitting down on it gingerly. It creaks and sags beneath him. Stiles snorts. Peter stands up quickly before the bed sags completely in the middle.

 

“Perhaps it would be better if we shared a bed,” Peter suggests, eyeing the sagging bed with distain. Stiles shrugs, tapping in his password. “What are you doing?”

 

“Sorry Petey, that’s classified,” Stiles says softly. A few more taps and the message is sent. Stiles closes down the laptop, snapping it shut and tucking it back into the bag.

 

“Don’t call me Petey,” Peter says. He sits behind Stiles as Stiles puts the bag on the floor and kicks it under the bed. Stiles leans back up, turning to face Peter.

 

“Do you not like Petey? I thought it was cute.” Peter frowns, evidently not impressed with Stiles new pet name. Stiles shrugs, climbing off the bed to examine the bathroom. Peter follows. Stiles flicks on the light.

 

“I hate you for making me stay here,” Peter hisses, retreating back into the room. The bathroom is disgusting with rotting tiles and dead flies on the windowsill. The mirror is cracked, making it extra difficult for Stiles to remove his contact lenses. His eyes were starting to sting; he’s worn them for far too long. When Stiles reenters the room, Peter has taken his bed though he hasn’t got under the covers. Stiles rolls his eyes and takes the other bed, curling up like a cat.

 

 

The next morning, Peter and Stiles are in the car before 6 am. Peter berates Stiles all the way into town; making Stiles promise to never make them share a disgusting motel again. Stiles laughs, asking Peter why he thinks they’ll be a next time. Peter buys Stiles breakfast and does not answer. Stiles daring heist is all over the local radio. After the sixth news bulletin, Peter plugs in his IPod and they listen to Stephen Fry reading Harry Potter instead.

 

Stiles takes to watching the countryside, letting the GPS guide Peter. He shares a few details about himself, nothing incriminating. He’s an Aries. His favorite food is curly fries. He used to have a boa constrictor named Rosie who he fed live mice. Simple stuff.

 

“You fell asleep,” Peter says out of the blue. Stiles drains the last of his peach iced tea before replying.

 

“In the hotel room? Yeah, I was exhausted.”

 

“I could have taken the money and ran,” Peter points out. Stiles shrugs.

 

“I knew you wouldn’t.”

 

“How so?”

 

“I’m fucking psychic.”

 

Peter seems to accept that Stiles isn’t going to give a straight answer and doesn’t bring it up again.

 

 

“You’re not that concerned about the money,” Peter points out over lunch. Stiles munches on a curly fry, dipping it in ketchup.

 

“Do you know ketchup has celery in it?” Stiles replies, observing the ingredients list.

 

 

“What’s the money for?” Peter asks. They’ve stopped for fuel and so that Stiles can use the bathroom.

 

“I’m gonna open a psychic parlor,” Stiles replies, “Use my talent for good.”

 

 

“Stiles, what is the money for?” Peter asks as he watches Stiles get the sides of his head shaved in a tiny barbers in a tiny town. He opted to get an undercut rather than the full buzz cut.

 

“You got me. I’m not really psychic. I’m gonna buy another snake, I miss Rosie.”

 

 

“Stiles, why do you need the money?” Peter asks as they’re sitting on the hood of the Camaro, eating plump strawberries Stiles had bought from a vendor a few miles back down the road.

 

“I’m paying off hospital debts for my artificial leg.” Stiles slaps his left thigh for emphasis.

 

 

“Stiles, the money!” Peter growls after threes renditions of One Directions, Girl Almighty.

 

“I’m sorry Peter. It’s for my wife, she’s pregnant with twins, and we won’t survive the winter, not with the leaking roof and the frozen pipes.”

 

“Did you really need to shed a tear?”

 

“Shush you heathen, it adds to my performance.”

 

 

“Stiles,” Peter murmurs in the dark in another grimy motel room. “Why do you need the money?”

 

“For my theatrical debut, I’m taking Stiles: Poor Life Choices on tour.”

 

 

When they pull up to the apartment block in Beacon Hills, Peter seems doubtful. Stiles waggles his eyebrows suggestively at him. Peter’s lip quirks up slightly.

 

“Thank you for your services,” Stiles says. He reaches into the bag and yanks out a few bundles of cash. He hands it to Peter. Peter stares at it but refuses to take it.

 

“Stiles,” He says, “Why do you need the money?”

 

Stiles grin drops. He likes Peter, he truly does. He’s sarcastic, intelligent and goddamn hot. Real package deal. Peter places a hand on top of Stiles, rubbing a thumb across his skin. His eyes are pleading with Stiles to tell him the truth as if somewhere along the way, Peter has come to care for Stiles.  Perhaps Stiles shouldn’t have taken a hostage in L.A. Too late now.

 

“I’ll be back in about 10 minutes, 20 tops,” Stiles says, shoving the money back into the bag. Peter opens his mouth as if to says something but then decides against it. Stiles gets out of the Camaro and enters the apartment block, trying to ignore the feeling like he’s being watched. Well, technically he is being watched, he can feel Peter’s intense gaze like a laser at the back of his head. It’s unnerving how long Peter can go without blinking sometimes. He gets into the elevator at the end of the dingy lobby.

 

2nd floor. 3rd floor. 4th floor. 5th floor. 6th floor. 7th floor.

 

They walk hand in hand down the corridor to apartment 7F. Stiles raps his knuckles against the door. Isaac answers. He looks pissed.

 

“What took you so damn long Stilinski?” He snaps. His eyes are red rimmed and he smells like instant coffee. Also sweat but Stiles isn’t going to comment on that.

 

“I didn’t have a fucking getaway driver like Erica promised me,” Stiles barks back, pushing past Isaac to get inside. The apartment is set up like with a wide variety of laptops and computers, it looks like the basement of a CIA building. Stiles dumps the bag on the table.

 

“Budget cuts,” Erica says, coming out from the kitchen, coffee in hand. “Did you get it?” Her blonde hair is scraped back into a tight ponytail and she also smells like instant coffee. Stiles roots around in his jacket until he finds the USB drive he’d hidden in one of the pockets. He tosses it to Boyd who’s at the largest computer and who also looks like he hasn’t slept for two days.

 

“I also stole about $10,000,” Stiles says, “Though I doubt that the head office will really care as it’s from the Argent Vault.”

 

“As long as we can take down Argent with the information on this drive,” Boyd days, jamming it into the USB port, “Then I doubt she’ll care about collateral.”

 

_Downloading…_

 

“Speaking of collateral,” Isaac drawls, “What do we do about the manifestation of your daddy issues parked across the road?” He gestures out of the window where Stiles knows that Peter is parked.

 

 “I’ll deal with my daddy issues later,” Stiles says, accepting the mug of coffee Erica hands him. Isaac snorts, leaning on the windowsill to keep an eye on the street below. “Anyway, did it work?” Stiles makes a wide sweeping gesture to the array of computers.

 

“Allison and Chris made it to the safe house about two hours ago,” Erica says, leaning over Boyd’s shoulder. “Scott and Danny are with them.”

 

“Scott? Really?” Stiles says, wincing slightly. Erica shrugs though her eyes give her away. Boyd snorts, tapping away at the computer.

 

“Do you think this will take Argent down?” Stiles asks, setting the mug on the table.

 

“We can only hope,” Erica replies.

 

“Your daddy issues are getting out of the car,” Isaac says. There appears to be no note of panic in his voice, in fact he sounds bored. Stiles gives him a withering glare before he grabs the bag, hoisting it onto his shoulder.

 

“I’ll go deal with that then,” Stiles says. Isaac tosses him another burner phone. Stiles catches it and mentally high fives himself that he doesn’t fumble.

 

“Call in an hour,” Erica instructs, “That’s all I’m giving you to get rid of your new man before you have to report to head office.”

 

“Who am I reporting to?”

 

“Lydia,” Isaac says gleefully.

 

“Fuck.”

 

 

Peter kisses like a man who’s just found an oasis in a desert. It’s passionate and almost desperate as if Peter is afraid that if he let’s go, Stiles will disappear. They’re in an upmarket hotel, the sheets beneath Stiles naked body feel like silk. Peter’s tongue is insistent, wet and warm. He’s holding Stiles down with one hand like a brand on Stiles hip. The other hand is cradling Stiles head, his thumb smoothing over skin. Peter traces Stiles moles with his tongue before sucking a deep bruise behind Stiles ear, wrangling a moan from Stiles lips.

 

“So responsive,” Peter murmurs against Stiles skin, licking a bead of sweat that’s trickling down Stiles neck. Stiles chuckles softly, stroking Peter’s back. Peter nips at Stiles neck, sucking more marks into the pale skin.

 

“How do you want this to go?” Stiles pants. Peter hums, running a sharp nail down Stiles chest, flicking his nipple. Stiles arches, a low moan spilling from his lips.

 

“I think I want to take you facing me,” Peter muses, “But first I’m going to finger you open until you’re begging.” Stiles feels his cock twitch at Peter’s words. Peter grins, reaching for the lube on the bedside table and drizzling it onto his fingers. He traces Stiles rim, soft, tender, teasing touches, which leave Stiles gasping for more. Peter begins with one finger, letting Stiles adjust. It’s been a while since Stiles has had anal sex and he’d prefer to be properly prepared.

 

“You’re so tight sweetheart,” Peter breathes, adding another finger. “Need to get you nice and loose for me don’t we?” Stiles is no longer capable of actual sentences, he can only gasp and moan. Peter revels in it, adding a third finger Stiles starts to rock back and forth, desperate for Peter to just brush his prostate. Peter chuckles, stretching Stiles open with glee.

 

“Need you,” Stiles pants, “Need you in me like yesterday.”

 

Peter laughs, the deep, rich laugh that Stiles is starting to love. He adds a fourth finger just to be sure, opening a condom with his other hand and his teeth. Stiles is sobbing, so damn desperate. Delayed gratification was never Stiles strong suit. Peter rolls the condom onto his cock, removing his fingers from Stiles entrance. Stiles whines like a needy animal, nails clawing at Peter’s back. Peter pushes in, slow and sweet.

 

“Come on Peter,” Stiles growls, gripping the back of Peter’s head to yank him into a fierce kiss. Peter starts thrusting his hips, a punishing pace. Stiles pants as he rocks forward to meet Peter. Stiles cock is trapped between them, smearing precum over Peter’s stomach. Which Stiles has discovered is rock hard. Seriously that thing is chiseled. Stiles is close, he can feel it. God it’s been a while since he’s done this.

 

“Peter,” Stiles whines, “Need to cum, please.”

 

“Go on then Stiles,” Peter pants, thrusting faster and hard, “Cum for me.”

 

Stiles feels like he’s flying apart at the seams with only Peter to keep him together. Peter comes soon after Stiles, nailing Stiles prostate as he does so. Stiles cock gives another twitch, a final spurt sticking between them. Peter pulls out leaving Stiles feeling strangely hollow and used. He falls next to Stiles on the seats, having flung the condom into the bin across the room.

 

“Show off,” Stiles mutters. Peter huffs a laugh against Stiles neck, nuzzling it.

 

“I never claimed otherwise,” Peter, says, slightly breathless. He throws a leg over Stiles, pinning him in place. Stiles relaxes into the pillows, content even though he knows that he has to call Lydia and check in at some point. Before Lydia phones him, which would definitely ruin the afterglow.

 

“Who’s Lydia?” Peter asks waspishly. Stiles freezes. Damn it afterglow.

 

“My boss,” Stiles says, turning to face Peter as he pets Peter’s hip. “Big boss lady who I have to report to in about five minutes otherwise she will phone me and yell at me down the phone. It’s a mood killer because when Lydia starts yelling I will undoubtedly start crying. Seriously than woman scares the shit outta me.”

 

“Stiles,” Peter begins but he’s cut off the insistent ringing of Stiles burner. It’s a standard ring tone, it isn’t even that loud but it seems to shatter everything between them. Peter rolls over, away from Stiles. He gets up and walks into the bathroom. A moment later Stiles hears the tap running. Stiles grabs his phone off and flips it open.

 

“Special Agent Tymoteusz Stilinski I could kill you,” Lydia snaps, voice dripping with venom, “You got a civilian messed up in this. The budget is stretched thin enough as it is, how am I supposed to explain to Deaton why we need another safe house for your boy toy?”

 

“Well actually,” Stiles says, “He’s older than me so.”

 

“I don’t fucking care how old he is Stiles,” Lydia hisses, “Why didn’t you just steal a car?”

 

“I didn’t have time,” Stiles retorts, “I was supposed to have a fucking getaway driver but apparently the CIA thought it wasn’t bloody necessary. I got the job done ok, I was the fucking distraction. We got them out and into a safe house. I just happened to pick up someone on the way. If necessary, we’ll go underground, I have at least $10’000 dollars from the Argent account to blow.”

 

“Yes,” Lydia replies coolly, “That wasn’t part of your orders.”

 

“When have I ever followed orders?” Stiles points out. He feels the weight of the bed shift. Peter is behind him, his arms wrap themselves around Stiles waist.

 

“Fair point,” Lydia concedes. There’s the sound of a door opening on her end and the nervous voice of a intern asking for a moment of her time. “I have to do damage control. Go to the nearest airport and get a flight.”

 

“Where?”

 

“Anyway that still has Wi-Fi, I don’t need you going off the grid completely. I’ll get in contact with you when you’re needed.”

 

“Love you too Lyds,” Stiles says. He bites his lip to avoid gasping as Peter’s hand start to slip lower.

 

“Don’t die Stiles,” Lydia says, “Dead agents are so much paperwork.”

 

She hangs up. Stiles tosses the phone across the room, moaning gutturally as Peter starts to stroke him back to hardness.

 

“We have a plane to catch,” Stiles pants, turning his head to nip Peter’s neck.

 

“So I heard,” Peter replies, seemingly unaffected though his blown pupils indicate otherwise. “We can still have a little fun before we go.”

 

Stiles smirks. Well, he’s not gonna argue with that.

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about the CIA, this was all lies. what did you expect, I'm an A-level student.


End file.
